


With Her

by onthatanonish



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthatanonish/pseuds/onthatanonish
Summary: She had to make a choice. When every action would be picked apart by the eyes of the world, she chose Lindsey. She always had chosen Lindsey. Always will choose Lindsey. Even to her own detriment. She knows no other way.
Relationships: Lindsey Horan/Emily Sonnett
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	With Her

**Author's Note:**

> This probably needs a TW for references to sexual abuse and also the anthem debate. Also, it's fiction.

When she sees it, she should be shocked.

They didn’t discuss it. And they had lots of discussions – the two of them alone without getting too deep, but also discussions as a team. She never hinted, never spoke up. And sure, as those moments flash through Lindsey’s mind now, she can picture how distraught Emily looked the whole time, even though she didn’t truly pick up on it then.

Or maybe she didn’t want to notice it.

She should have noticed it. Noticed her withdrawal from social media, the huge purge of people she was following, how in her shell she had been for chunks of time this past week. But then she’d burst back on the scene with her typical Sonny insanity, and it was easy enough to take comfort in how loud and familiar and all-encompassing her laughter and her shenanigans were.

She _would_ be shocked if other emotions weren’t overpowering that one right now. She can’t even appreciate what she knows is going on, where she knows Sonnett’s stance – her literal stance – is coming from, because the most powerful emotion coursing through her body, filling her veins and pumping from her heart to her lungs is fear. Fear that Sonnett isn’t strong enough to handle the backlash that’s coming. Because she’s not Julie and she’s not Carli and she’ll never be Kelley no matter how much people compare them. Because she wasn’t built to withstand what Lindsey was built to withstand.

The hardest part of watching her isn’t seeing the resoluteness she’s trying to project in her expression and knowing that it’s all a lie. The hardest part is knowing that absolutely no one is going to understand.

They’ll call her insensitive.

Ignorant.

Racist.

A bootlicker, like Kelley. Full of herself, like Carli. Insincere for kneeling twice before bowing out, like JJ.

And that? That’s all Lindsey’s fault.

She’s not any of those things.

People misunderstanding her is something Lindsey can deal with all day. People misunderstanding Emily is not, and she doesn’t know what to do about it, because it’s too late, and Emily won’t even make eye contact with her, staring stoically at an empty spot in the stands. Unmoving and focused on the wrong thing.

What is written across her chest, she believes in. When she knelt, she meant it. She’d do it in a heartbeat again, without any reservations, because she supports her teammates. But she saw Lindsey stand and Lindsey didn’t have to tell her why. It clicked on its own, but it doesn’t make it any less Lindsey’s fault for sharing her burden with Sonnett and Sonnett alone. Because now, the woman she loves more than anyone else in the whole world is refusing to let her stand alone.

A cursory glance across the pitch and the sidelines would lead any educated person to claim that Lindsey _isn’t_ standing on her own. That she doesn’t need someone else on her side. And she doesn’t. She’s never needed anyone. But that cursory glance and the assumptions that follow don’t tell her story. They don’t even tell part of her story. Those assumptions couldn’t be more off-base. But she’s not going to bother to correct them because she _can’t_ correct them.

No one knows. Not her teammates, past or present. Not her brother. Not her parents. Not the team psychologist. Not her personal therapist. Not her best friend in the whole entire world. People know parts. People know the toned-down version, the socially acceptable version, the version that led them to kind of look at her sometimes like _why are you even talking about this, it doesn’t seem like a big deal_. The only person she’s ever trusted with every dark recess of her soul is Emily. With Emily she can be real. It was through Emily, she's started to heal.

She stands because of what she went through to wear this badge. Saying that doesn’t make her ignorant. She knows her privilege. She knows that she will never even begin to be able to fathom what some of her teammates have lived through and will continue to live through because of the color of their skin. But she’s lived through some really brutal times as well.

Through every time he screamed in her face, close enough that his spit flew all over her and she wasn’t allowed to flinch.

Through the way he would grab her arm hard enough to leave a bruise as he yelled insults about her appearance in her ear. Loud enough that it would be ringing minutes after. Loud enough that every teammate could hear.

Through the way he’d put his hand, heavy and too low on her back while he whispered inappropriate comments that passed as training critiques, and then smack her on the ass when he was finished. It always came with a promise that he could make her great, give her what she’d dreamed of, if she’d just help him out a little bit. It made her physically ill, but she had to hold it in until she could escape to the safety of a bathroom after training because throwing up on the pitch would have led to more abuse. She didn't lose weight in France because she dieted; she lost weight because she couldn't keep anything down, living with the constant fear that he'd find her alone in the locker room and make all the things he said to her not just a nightmare but a reality.

She didn’t need him to make her great, but she didn't know that for awhile. She went to France and ended up having to do it on her own. She ended up having to do it in spite of him. And then she came back home.

Here it got worse. This time, there was no half-story to tell. No way to process it. This time, there was a tiny voice in the back of her head telling her that what was going on was wrong but a bigger part of her was cloaked in shame and she couldn’t get away, not from the man she, and her family, had trusted for so long to train.

All along, he had really just been grooming her for that chain.

She lived through him sweating on top of her and pushing her down on her knees and taking her from behind. She lived through accepting it as normal and through thinking he loved her and through what she thought was her loving him back.

Every single time she withstood the verbal and physical and emotional and sexual abuse across two continents, she made it out the other side because she saw the flag in front of her. Clear as day. Thirteen stripes she could visualize waving in the breeze on a far-off flagpole. Fifty stars she could count until it was over. Sometimes she had to count them several times before it ended. Every time it happened, she squeezed her eyes shut and heard the anthem. Pictured the US Soccer crest on a jersey and Horan 10 on the back. She could draw it from memory with her finger on a mattress or a desk or her own thigh. Every time it happened, there was a goal there pushing her forward and helping her survive: to not just visualize herself on the green grass of the pitch surrounded by thousands of fans, but to _be_ on the green grass of the pitch surrounded by thousands of fans. It became something bigger than what she was going through in the moment. Something that she knew eventually would get her out.

And she got out. It took her years, but she got out.

The fact that none of what she experienced was because of the color of her skin doesn’t mean it was any less real. Doesn’t invalidate her experience.

That flag saved her.

The belief that if she could _withstand_ , she _could_ stand eventually with that crest on her breast and those sweet, sweet notes in her ear got her out the other side of almost a decade of fear.

So she stood on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, not because of her politics or her parents, her privilege or her principles. Not because of ignorance or a lack of empathy. Not because she wanted to hurt anyone, least of all her teammates. And not because she failed to understand systemic racial injustice or the importance of unity.

She stood for the girl who survived because of her singular focus on that flag.

For once she stood up for herself.

And now the woman who says “I love you, Linds,” every single night before she falls asleep – be it in person or across three time zones or nine – has found a way to do more than just say it. When no one understood why she stood on Monday and she was left out there feeling helpless because she wasn’t standing for the same reasons as the others, this woman hurt for her. Deep in her soul, Emily ached for Lindsey, alongside Lindsey, and she knew what she had to do because she is the only other person in the whole world who can stand up for her.

With her.

A silent “ _I see you. I know. I do this for you. You don’t have to hurt alone_.”

She made a choice because she had to make a choice. She couldn’t support both her teammates and her girlfriend at the same time. Putting one above the others doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care, doesn’t understand. She can wear the words BLACK LIVES MATTER across her chest and stand with her hand on her heart and know that she’s not being hypocritical or insincere. Because that flag and that badge saved the woman she loves.

But because of Lindsey, the world will never know what lies in Emily's heart. Her own teammates will never know her motives. That’s a burden she’ll have to bear on her own because Lindsey, for once, won’t be able to step in and protect her from the incoming criticism and hate that she knows is headed her way because it came for her in full-force Monday night.

The final word of the anthem fades and Emily’s eyes meet hers. She feels like she can’t breathe. Her eyes burns and her throat burns and her chest burns and she knows Emily’s fighting off being choked up too, because there are cameras and fans and she’s about to start her first game of 2021 so she has to focus.

Lindsey has been brave, time and again.

Tonight, Emily decided to be brave, too.


End file.
